All That Was Happy

by M. M. Wilshire

  “You tricked me,” Beckie said. “You’re a lot smarter than you look. You turned my doubts about your identity into another date for tomorrow night--a charity event you said?”

  “The United Way,” he said. “Every year they host a few dinners for anybody who lays a little bread on them. Tomorrow night, we’re feasting at the top of the Washington Mutual Building in Banker’s Gulch.”

  They were on barstools in the efficiently designed, tiny kitchen off the living room, the absence of windows on the kitchen side of the house lending an air of privacy to the nook. Beckie, nursing a brandy and warm milk, having previously admired the small home that was big on style, the entry opening onto the surprisingly classy living room, its tall casement windows overlooking the strand and the ocean beyond, effectively connecting the beach with the living room and making the room seem larger than it really was. The steeply pitched roof with decorative beam ends--upon which--hanging by a yellow nylon rope--was a long black surfboard--gave the place an established appearance, considering the front of the house was only fourteen feet wide. Mr. Boopers, pleased with the place, luxuriated himself on a pillow beside the fireplace, which provided him a cozy warmth from its gas flame hissing over a trio of reasonably realistic ceramic logs, content to finish up some last minute grooming before retiring.

  “I’ve never trusted these charities,” Beckie said. “People give them their money and they wind up wining and dining the rich. Wasn’t it just a few years ago that United Way’s top guy spent all the money buying up condos in Florida or something?”

  “They’ve cleaned house since then,” Huntington said, “and these dinners do appear to be the product of ill-spent funds, but the truth is, they don’t spend a penny of the charity pot to host them--the fancy dinner is actually just a big pot luck affair. Everybody in the donor club donates something for free--for example, my consortium is supplying the wine.”

  “Your consortium?”

  “Chillers isn’t a closely held corporation,” Huntington said. “It’s really a part of a much larger co-op--we participate with other related businesses to purchase things in bulk, and at a discount. Actually, what I’m doing now isn’t so much different than what I did on Wall Street--when I was on The Street, I specialized in institutional trading, which is another way of spelling monopoly.”

  “In other words,” Beckie said, “you monopolized Wall Street, and when you got tired of that, you monopolized the food and drink trade on the Third Street Promenade. That’s why I can’t get a corn dog unless I’m willing to walk all the way to the pier.”

  “Co-ops are a sort of necessary evil nowadays--a financial circling of the wagons,” Huntington said. “Our increased strength keeps us safe from the raiders. By the way, if corn dogs are your thing, I’ll lay in a supply.”

  “You sound like Bernie,” Beckie said. “He’s spent the last six months working on a merger, trying to connect himself to related enterprises, which is another way of saying monopoly--when I advised him against it, he threw me out of the office--come to think of it, that was probably the beginning of the end. We worked together at the business every day until six months ago, when he started entertaining the idea of taking Argon Tools and having it become a part of something larger. I was happy with running the business ourselves, but he used to say Argon Tools was just a wheel in the machine--now he says he’s almost closed the deal that will make Argon tools one of the richest spokes on a very large wheel.”

  “Beckie,” Huntington said. “From what I’ve heard, this thing you’re dealing with, what with Bernie serving you your papers out of the blue, and the marshaling of your assets and all--well, something doesn’t smell right to me--I think there’s some angles here that need to be investigated.”

  “Oh my,” Beckie said. “I don’t believe it!”

  “Believe what?”

  “That board hanging by the rope in your living room--I think I recognize it! It looks like the Ten-foot-six-inch Jacobs’ surfboard Robert August used when they filmed Endless Summer!”

  “It is,” Huntington said. “How did you know?”

  “I was on the beach when Bruce Brown was filming the part in Endless Summer where Mickey Dora is hanging five in Malibu. Robert August showed up with that surfboard during the filming.”

  “That’s my favorite part of the movie,” Huntington said. “The part where they’re filming Mickey Dora hanging ten, where he stands there for what seems like forever, and Bruce Brown, in the narrative, says that Dora looked so relaxed on the nose of his board that he could probably eat a ham sandwich while he’s waiting for the ride to end. It’s like a little story that explains what life is all about--if everyone could be as patient as Mickey Dora, we’d all have the perfect ride, and we’d all get exactly what we wanted. Life is a ride on an endless wave.”

  “I don’t quite get the connection,” Beckie said. “Between Mickey Dora and the ham sandwich.”

  “Don’t you get it?” Huntington said. “Mickey Dora’s ham sandwich represents a man who knows how to wait for what he really wants--in the end, he gets to eat his ham sandwich while hanging ten at Malibu--it’s another way of saying he’s got it all--if you can wait as patiently as Mickey Dora, you’ll soon have it all. It’s another way of saying, All Things Come To He Who Waits.”

  “Robert August let me surf on that board,” Beckie said.

  “Awww, that’s incredible,” Huntington said.

  “How did the board get into your living room?” she said.

  “My older brother was really into the surfing life,” Huntington said. “After my dad died, believe it or not, my mom dated Robert August’s father for awhile--while they were dating, my mom discovered the board in Mr. August’s garage and she picked it up for my brother.”

  “Your brother just gave his legendary Robert August surfboard to you?”

  “My brother died in Vietnam,” Huntington said.

  “Oh, Huntington,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago,” he said. “I keep the board on display in his honor.”

  “It’s fate,” she said. “To think, I met you only yesterday, and today we’re connected by the same surfboard.”

  “It’s amazing what a turn life can take,” he said.

  “This brandy’s made me sleepy,” she said. “Can we talk about it in the morning?”

  “C’mon,” he said. “I’ll show you your room. We’ll leave the fire on for the dog.”

  They took the winding staircase past the second level featuring the sumptuously appointed master suite to the third-story loft, a tiny space fitted into a whimsical gable, a unique round window providing the ultimate view of sand, sea and moonlit sky. Aside from a built in bookshelf over a desk filled with a computer and a lot of camera equipment, the only other item in the room was an expensive-looking telescope and two comfortable chairs by the window.

  “There’s no bed in here,” Beckie said.

  “But there is a half bath through that tiny door beside the desk,” he said. “I think the former owner rented this space out as an artist’s retreat. I hope you can stand a futon. I keep it rolled up in the closet for emergencies like this, when a beautiful woman agrees to let me into her life.”

  “A futon? You’ve got to be kidding! Somehow I expected something more luxurious from a rich man,” Beckie said. “Or are you expecting me to refuse the futon and agree to sleep in your bed?”

  “I told you I could sleep in the Suburban--that way, you could enjoy my bedroom suite--it has every luxury you can think of--it’s got a high-def, flat-screen TV, a redwood sauna and even a jacuzzi tub on the balcony with built in stereo and flashing lights.”

  Am I crazy? Beckie thought. What am I doing staying over at this guy’s house? How did I get here? Where did all my boundaries go? She remembered suddenly how it felt to be barred from her own home only an hour before. That’s why she was staying with Huntington--or was it? Could it possibly have anything to do with the fact that he was
rich and handsome?

  “Okay Huntington,” Beckie said. “I don’t want to take over your bedroom. Roll out the futon. I’m going to rough it for a night.”

  He rustled the futon from the closet and rolled it out, supplying her likewise with bedding from the closet shelf.

  “You’ll find everything you need in the bath,” he said. “Even a new toothbrush. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Huntington, wait,” Beckie said. “Sit with me a moment.”

  They sat together by the window, enjoying the ever-changing light and shadows on the strand outside, the three-quarter moon roseately ringed.

  “Are you doing anything with your life besides just enjoying being rich?” she said.

  “Besides running a business?” he said.

  “Yeah, besides that.” she said. “I mean, really doing anything with your life?”

  “When you asked me that,” he said, “I wasn’t sure I wanted to answer it.”

  “When you’re ready to answer me,” Beckie said, “take a deep breath and tell me.”

  “You like to peel away the layers in people don’t you?” he said.

  “Impress me,” she said. “You say you’re interested in me--well, now’s your chance to impress me--answer my question.”

  “Am I doing anything with my life?” Huntington said. “Let me ask you--have you ever really wanted something? Something that you could never find--have you ever spent years wishing you were somebody else but you didn’t know who? Have you ever got down on your knees and admitted to God that you’d sell your soul for something, if only you could find what it is you wanted to sell it for?”

  “Yes,” Beckie said.

  “Okay,” he said. “What I’ve been doing in my life is looking for somebody. That’s what I’m really doing with my life--I decided recently it might be that I was looking for a woman. But since you asked, I think you should know that I’ve made a big discovery--I think I’ve finally found her--ready or not, here it comes--it’s you.”

  His words burst in on her like an incoming wave. She tried to speak, but found herself speechless.

  “Aw, C’mon Beckie--you don’t have to look so horrified!”

  Beckie made a motion, as if to scoop her hair back.

  “I keep forgetting I have no hair,” she said. “Look, Huntington, I’ll admit it pleased me just now to hear you say that. I suppose you’ve figured out by now that there’s something missing in my life, and you sound like you’re hoping you’re the answer to that. But you just asked me if there was something I wanted in life enough to sell my soul for. The answer is yes. Not that there is anything now, but there used to be something I wanted bad enough. There was something I wanted so bad I was willing to sell my soul for it--and I did.”

  Tears filled her eyes and she took a deep breath.

  “When I was a kid,” she said, “we moved around a lot because my dad was always looking for work--so I guess what I always wanted, deep down, was to stay in one place--to never have to move again, no matter what. To be honest about it, that’s part of the reason why I married Bernie--my shrink, Dr. Black was right--she confronted me about my selfishness. She tried to get me to see it, to see that when I married Bernie, it wasn’t out of love, but from a desire for security--I knew Bernie wasn’t going to be flaky--I knew he’d be a good provider and give me the kind of security my dad never could.”

  “You wanted security more than anything,” he said. “So you compromised--you traded passion for security.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It’s understandable,” he said. “Most people do that. I never have--one of the vows I made all those years ago in High School as a Young Fogy was to hold out for true love--the kind Bogie and Bergman had--or the Duke with Maureen O’Hara.”

  “I had a shot at romance when I was just a little surfer girl,” she said. “Mickey Dora was interested in me. That’s why I was on the beach that day. Perhaps I was his ham sandwich. But I put it all away when I decided to go with Bernie.”

  “After all this time, do you love your husband?” Huntington asked.

  “That question is out of bounds,” she said. “I haven’t had time to sort out my feelings about Bernie yet. I’m still not certain he really means to divorce me. I’m half expecting him to call me and come whining back.”

  “Do you love your husband?” Huntington asked. “Tonight, at the restaurant, you said you weren’t sure what love is--answer me--do you love Bernie?”

  Beckie began to softly cry. “Turn out the light in here,” she said. “I don’t want people walking by down there to be able to look up here and see me crying in this window.”

  Huntington got up and hit the wall switch, whereupon the room transformed itself into a floating island in a moonbeam.

  “This is difficult to admit,” she said. “But I’ve had no romance in my life in the entire twenty-nine years I’ve been with Bernie. I guess to make up for it, I kept focused on working to build the tool business. After awhile, I forgot all about romance. Staying busy in the day-to-day running of the business kept me from looking at myself--when Bernie closed me out of the business six months ago, it caused me a lot of pain--pain I couldn’t face, and a pain I didn’t understand--I started going through my day very carefully, not looking at myself or what I was feeling. I knew something was very wrong inside, but I couldn’t face it. Every day, while Bernie was at work, I shopped for antique ceramic figurines--I must have collected a zillion figurines--each time I purchased one, I looked at it, trying to find the meaning of its life. I realize now that I was trying to find myself inside those shining figures. In a way, you could say I was searching for my soul.”

  “Do you love your husband,” Huntington said.

  “Yes,” Beckie said. “I love him--but not with passion.”

  “I’m sorry,” Huntington said. “Beckie--it’s not too late to have passion in your life--it’s not too late. Look, we’ve found each other--the surfboard proves it--you and I are connected--it’s the hand of fate.”

  “It’s too late for me,” Beckie said. “Listen, Huntington, I can’t turn back the clock. I can’t go back to where I was before I married Bernie. I can’t be that little surfer girl again riding the beautiful black Jacobs board. I’m going to have to live my life without the passion and the beauty you speak of. The past twenty-nine years has left me with nothing but ice and stone inside. Right now I’m tired--I’m more tired than I’ve ever been in my entire life. I think we’ve done enough peeling of layers for one night--I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I just want to sleep. I want you to leave me alone--please go--and lock the door behind you.”

  Chapter 22

  She knew Bernie was up there somewhere--she could hear him but not see him. She had a long, silver cord protruding from her navel. The silver cord extended upward, as far as Beckie could determine, clear into Heaven. She was standing on the beach, talking with the unseen Bernie. The full moon sparkled on her silver cord.

  “I can’t hear you very well, Bernie,” she said. She’d been talking to Bernie for a long time. He’d been explaining to her about the Great White she’d seen at the Pier.

  “You were supposed to feed your dog to the shark,” Bernie said. “You were supposed to do that--when you didn’t do that, I had to take your car and your home--don’t you see? The dog is our child--our passion--you were supposed to feed it to the shark so it could live again in three days.”

  “I can’t hear you,” she cried.

  “I’m coming down,” he said.

  He began to slide down her silver cord, coming towards her from Heaven, getting closer and closer. But the cord broke free from her belly and he started to tumble--as he dropped into the ocean, she could see something was wrong with his face. It was elongated, and lumpy. It was Bernie’s body, but with the shark’s face.

  Beckie screamed.

  She awoke to the hammering of her heart, her body hopelessly tangled in the comforter, her upper torso half off the
futon. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog was barking at the moon. The background drone of the mighty city was subdued while its people slept; she could hear the sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the house. The room had lost its life, imparting to her the sensation of lying bound within the dusty confines of a coffin. The coffin began to shrink and as it shrank the air heated up--she felt her skin starting to burn. She threw off the covers and stepped to the window, unlatching it and pushing it open, letting the cool air cascade in over her face. The shushing of the shore break muted the sharper serenades of pre-dawn traffic--the moon was nearly down for the night but still brilliant; the misty air completely still; the world asleep. The telescope called to her--she scanned the moonlit beach, pausing the lens at the shoreline, marveling at the glassy, pristine condition of the waves, their combs sleek and smooth, unruffled by any wind. A few night birds shrieked lonely shrieks.

  There was but one single solitary act left to perform to properly atone for her sin of living a lifetime without love, a lifetime of living with Bernie. Slipping back into her sequined silver tube, she eased the door to her room open and made her way to the second floor landing, opening the door to Huntington’s master suite. She shook him awake and he sat bolt upright.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “Get up,” she said. “The moonlight’s bright as day outside. The waves are two feet and glassy.”

  Groggily, he stood up and yawned. “You’re dressed,” he said. “Okay. I understand. I’ll drive you over to the Marquis--but you can’t blame me for trying.”

  “That’s not where we’re going,” she said. “Follow me.” She led him down the spiral staircase and into the living room. Mr. Boopers, comfortable on his pillow before the fire, wagged his tail and made a few licking sounds but did not rise, it not being an hour he cared for.

  “Take the surfboard down,” she said.

  “My Robert August surfboard?” he said.

  “If you want a shot at having me in your life, you’ll take the board down,” she said.